


I Believe in John Watson

by WhichWolfWins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Drug Use, F/M, Heartbreak, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Past Drug Use, Realization, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:14:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhichWolfWins/pseuds/WhichWolfWins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns from taking down Moriarty's web to find out that John is engaged to be married. His fiance, a woman Sherlock can actually stand, proposes a challenge: let the best of them win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is in no way brit-picked or beta'd, so if you see any mistakes, they are my own and I would love for you to inform me of them! :)
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC, and anyone else involved with the making and producing of this show. This is in no way mine; these are their toys and I am simply playing with them.

**Now.**

His feet are pressed together and his knees are splayed as he sits on the curb of the sun-warmed pavement inhaling through a burning cigarette. He sucks in the smoke, lets it curl and smolder in his lungs to the point where it burns before he takes another drag and holds it in on halted breath.

As his lungs begin to feel tight, as they plead for him to exhale the tainted air and breathe in the fresh, once familiar air around him, he wonders what the people milling about might do if he were to hold his breath so long that he collapsed, dead, onto the ground he now sat on. 

But Sherlock isn’t an idiot and he knows that the body that so loves to betray him would fight against him and win once more. And anyway, he hears the almost silent approach he’s been expecting. Dreading. It’s lighter than the last time he heard it; only a shift of rocks and the click of an umbrella tapping the pavement to his right alerting him to his brother’s unwanted presence. 

Sherlock exhales so that he can feel the curling smoke escape in a steady stream from his lungs, feel as they slowly deflate to the point of being almost painfully empty, and then he breathes in deeply. 

“Mycroft,” he says on the exhale. He wishes he’d counted how long he’d deprived himself of air. He wishes he cared enough to look at his brother and worry over the weight he’s lost. He wishes he wasn’t alive right now to hear what he knows his dear brother is here to say. But he learned a long time ago not to wish for things, because wishes never came true. No bloody dead star or fallen eyelash or birthday candles had the power to grant them, and he wasn’t one of those people that knew the truth and still wished anyway, because of some lingering fragment of hope. 

But if he were that kind of person, and he wasn’t, he would have wished that what his brother said next wasn’t so. 

“Her name is Mary Morstan,” Mycroft says. Sherlock quirks a smile, because his brother feels bad for him. So much so that he isn’t chiding him for his, shall we say, ‘reignited’ habit. “They are to be married in August.” 

Sherlock knew the expression on his brother’s face, even without seeing it; the amused pucker of his lips together, the scrunch of displeasure to the beakish nose that was so much like their father’s. 

Mycroft had always looked like an almost-perfect replica of their father, and even more so when he was thinner. Though his fluctuating weight came from their mother, everything else seemed to have come from him. Sherlock, on the other hand, might look exactly like his mother if she kept the weight off and he grew his hair long, and perhaps smiled a bit more. Their cool demeanor was one of the only things he and Mycroft both shared from their father. And, of course, the height. Their mother measured in at a meer 1.63 metres. 

Sherlock takes a final deep drag off the fag and stubs it out on the concrete before he rises to stand beside his brother. He knew the moment he was gone, the fag would be bagged and tested, but he wouldn’t give his brother the satisfaction of slipping the butt into his pocket. It wasn’t like he’d find anything, anyway. 

A sleek black car pulls up in front of them and Sherlock gets inside. 

* * *

He makes it until the early hours of morning, and then he can’t resist it anymore. He pulls out his new laptop and sets it down on the scuffed wooden table of the flat Mycroft has set him up in. It’s tiny, one bedroom with a wire framed bed that takes up almost all the room, a bathroom with one towel and one hand cloth, a kitchenette, and a sitting room with a sofa that looks like it’s been dragged in off the street. But at least he has his violin back. He’d almost asked Mycroft how he’d managed to get it out of the flat, but he’d frozen when the realization had dawned on him. He didn’t know how it was that all this time it had never occurred to him that John might not keep his things in their flat. John’s flat. John and Mary’s? 

He pulls up a search engine and he types in her name. Sherlock has a sudden urge to light up another cigarette, but he’s bought himself patches and has three stuck to his forearm already. John didn’t like him smoking. He adds a fourth due to necessity. 

The first thing that pops up is Mary's Facebook page and Sherlock clicks the link. He feels ill just looking at her. Cropped blond hair that frames her heart-shaped face and grey eyes that are almost blue smile at him from the screen. It's no surprise that she's beautiful, but he doesn’t look at her for long as his eyes are drawn to the man who has his arm wrapped around her waist. 

Sandy blond hair, blue-gray eyes, bright smile. It takes Sherlock’s breath away how good John looks, how happy. He’s actually grinning, the way he only ever did when one of them said something funny or they’d just solved a brilliant case. Mary’s looking at the camera and he’s looking at Mary with a hint of something in his eyes that Sherlock has seen many times, but never been able to read. It was one of the things about John that had Sherlock wishing that he could read John's mind. That is, if Sherlock wished at all. 

It’s like he’s been shot, the sudden pain that shoots through his chest. Sherlock slams the laptop closed and pushes back from the table, the chair scraping into the hardwood floor. He feels like he might vomit. He grips his hair and pulls, stifling the urge to scream, because why does he look at her that way? What does it mean? Sherlock has only ever seen John look at him that way. He turns and paces the floor, wall-to-wall and back again. His hand flies out and he snatches a glass off the counter, then hauls off and throws it across the room. It shatters on the wall and Sherlock freezes at the sound as the glass sprays, watches as the water sluices down the cigarette smoke-stained wallpaper. 

His heart is racing, his scalp is throbbing, and his breath is coming in stutters. He presses himself against the repulsive wall and slides down to the dirty hardwood, covering his mouth with the back of his trembling hand as he pants harshly. He rests his head on his knees as violent shivers wrack his body, slides his fingers into his hair and keens, physically unable to stop himself from shaking, but trying nonetheless. A chill sweat breaks out on his skin and he jumps to his feet to run to the tiny sink. He hasn’t eaten in... when was the last time he’d eaten anything? He dry-heaves into the sink, clutching the countertop as he shudders through the next surge of nothingness. 

He trembles there for awhile, trying and failing to come up with something other than burning bile until his legs give out from beneath him and he crumbles to the dirty floor like a marionette doll. 

Everything is closing in on him at once. Hunger, fatigue, being back in London, but mostly John and the years that have passed; exactly three years and three month. Everything he’s missed while he’s been gone and everything he’ll never have. Realizing he’d wanted something in the first place is enough to leave him feeling like he’s been strung up and lashed with a cat o’ nine tails whip. 

Sherlock stretches out on the filthy floor, the top of his head pressed up against the sharp bottom of the kitchen cabinet, not caring about the damage he’s doing to a perfectly good suit. He stares up at the water stained ceiling as his heart continues to thrash against his ribcage. If he was the kind of person that wished for things, he’d wish for the water-stained ceiling to collapse upon him and not kill him instantly, but slowly crush the air out of him, breaking each of his ribs one-by-one with the weight. 

He wants to see John. He wants more than anything to show up at the door to 221B and see him. John never believed it, that he was beautiful, that he was special, but Sherlock has always thought he was both. Anyone who could put up with someone like Sherlock had to be something special. And he had the most beautiful smiles... has. Except now they’re for someone else. John Watson was truly a spectacular man, and Sherlock had known it from the start, he just hadn't understood what it meant until he was without John. 

He will see him, Sherlock decides as he splays his fingers over his flat abdomen and studies the water stain above him. It looks exactly like Africa, Sherlock realizes. He slides his hand up and rests his hand over the bird rattling around in his chest and presses his lips firmly together. He must see John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will eventually be rated Explicit.
> 
> Please let me know what you think if you have the time.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the rest of the story!


	2. Chapter 2

**After the Fall.**

Sherlock closes the door to the dryer and sits down on the bright green bench across from it. He's been on his feet for days, to the point that he feels a bone-deep ache in his arches and calves, and is just now finally getting the opportunity to do his much needed laundry. He tents his hands over his lips, brushing the bottom of his nose with his fingertips, and leans forward with his elbows digging into his aching muscles. 

As the wash cycle spins, Sherlock remembers a day that seems like ages ago when John had gaped at him in disbelief, jealousy, and a little hint of disgust. "Christ," he had muttered after having stared at the garment bags folded over Sherlock's forearm. He shook his wheat-colored head and went into the kitchen to make his usual cup of after-work tea. 

"What?" Sherlock had said, standing in the kitchen's open doorway and looking at John's square shoulders. Whenever John wasn't paying attention, or paying too much attention for that matter, he always reverted back to the soldier. Square shoulders, straight back, firm press of the lips. It was a rare occasion to see him stand any other way. 

"You don't own a thing that you can just toss in a washer, do you?" John had said as he filled his cup with steaming water and turned to face Sherlock again. He leaned against the kitchen counter with both hands on his RAMC mug and his eyebrows raised in that darkly-humoured way of his. "Aside from those costumes of your's, I mean. Something you would wear as yourself. As Sherlock." 

At the time, the question had given Sherlock pause. Not because he couldn't think of anything, but because he could, and he didn't want John to know about it, because Sherlock _did_ know that what he had didn't adhere to acceptable flatmate behaviour, and John most certainly wouldn’t approve. 

"My pyjamas," Sherlock had said instead, because yes, he could wash the blue pyjama trousers, as well as the loose grey sleepshirt, in the washer, though he chose not to. 

"Have you ever washed a load of laundry?" John asked, quirking his eyebrow at Sherlock over the rim of his cup. 

"No. Why would I, John, when I could have it done for me?" Sherlock had asked, not liking the way John managed to make him feel like he should feel ashamed because of it. Sherlock hadn’t told John the whole truth, but it hadn’t exactly been a lie, either. Sherlock was familiar with washing his own clothes, but he’d never used a washer before. There had been a handful of years where the only washings Sherlock’s clothes had gotten was in a sink with a bar of soap, and Sherlock had watched as the dirty water circled down the drain as he wrung out each item. Always the hoodie first, so it would be at least slightly dry by the time he was finished washing the rest, so that he would have something to hide the track marks and his frail frame. That had been one of the few of Mycroft's requests Sherlock had agreed to. 

John had huffed a laugh and taken a sip of his too-hot tea before setting the mug down on the countertop. “I’ve got some things I need to wash, and you’re coming with me. Who knows,” John said then, quirking a slight, sideways smile as he met Sherlock’s eyes, “maybe you might find the information useful one day.” 

Sherlock nearly jumps out of his skin when the washer beeps. He ignores the eyes on him as he crosses the linty floor to drag his heavy clothes out of the wash. He carries the damp garments in his arms to the nearest dryer and shoves the pile inside. He drops the coins into the slot and presses his finger hard into the stubborn green start button. Once it begins to spin, the clothes clunking around as they get used to the tumble, Sherlock goes back to the lime green bench and drops more than sinks onto the hard wood. 

John had grinned from ear to ear as Sherlock grimaced down at the laundry soap on his hands. “I don’t see why you’re doing this, John. I’ve gone 34 years without having to do this; why would it suddenly become of use to me now?” 

John had rolled his eyes in amusement at Sherlock, who’d been holding his hands upturned in front of him. “You have no qualms about dissecting body parts, but the second you so much as get a few drops of soap on your hands, _then_ you get squeamish?” 

“Well, if you had told me I should bring gloves-” 

“Now you’re just being dramatic for dramas sake.” 

John huffed at Sherlock’s smirk. “I just wanted to teach you something for once,” John had eventually admitted, before meeting Sherlock’s eyes and giving him that look of his that Sherlock couldn’t read, his lips pressed together and his teeth worrying the inside of his bottom lip like he was thinking about something that disappointed him, that Sherlock was unable to detect. 

Sherlock hadn’t known what to say, so he’d given John a smile that he hoped had conveyed the feelings he didn’t understand. He’d been tempted to circle John’s wrist with his sticky hand and simply hold on, feel John’s pulse join his pulse through his fingertips, but the moment was quickly taken from him as John straightened and closed the washer. “There’s a sink over there specifically for soapy hands,” John had said, and pointed Sherlock across the room and away from the confusing temptation to touch him. 

The dryer was still by the time Sherlock’s eyes focused back in on the launderette around him, on the bright orange walls and the cobalt blue ceiling. He senses eyes on him once more and he allows his annoyance into his movements as he crosses the room to retrieve his clothes. When he turns around again, clothes packed away in a backpack slung over his shoulder, there’s a man with brown skin, brown eyes, and short cropped brown hair watching him from the opposite side of the median of washers. Sherlock spares the man a glance and is met by a suggestively quirked brow that has Sherlock sneering back. 

He feels overly exposed under the fluorescent lights above and strides out of the launderette looking stronger than he feels. He doesn’t belong here, and if he was the kind of man that wished for things, he would wish that he was home, in 221B with John, instead of just having tried to wash the blood of a woman he'd had to kill out of his clothes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Now.**

When Sherlock opens his eyes, his head is throbbing, his back hurts, and there is still shattered glass on the disgusting floor. His bladder is also aching, so, rather reluctantly, Sherlock reaches up and clasps the counter’s edge to hoist himself off the floor. 

He walks with stilted steps to the tiny bathroom that’s barely large enough to close the inward opening door without having to press himself against the filthy shower stall and relieves himself quickly before deciding on a hot shower. He turns it up to nearly boiling and steps under the torrent to be pelted by the stinging drops. He lets the sizzling water tattoo his skin red for half an hour before the water turns frigidly cold and he remembers where he is. 

The only towel Sherlock has is a travel one tucked deep into the backpack carrying his only possessions. He digs it out and quickly pats himself dry before tugging on a pair of tan cargo pants and a loose black t-shirt. His only suit, loosely fitted now, is covered in dirt from him having slept on the kitchen floor. 

When Sherlock exits the bedroom, which only has a twin queen-sized mattress on the floor and Sherlock’s bag for decoration, it’s to find his brother standing just inside the front door. He’s holding his umbrella in such a way as to prevent it from actually touching the dirty floor. As Sherlock enters the room, his brother takes in his outfit with pursed lips before withdrawing a credit card from his pocket. 

Sherlock doesn’t move to take it. Instead, he proceeds to ignore his brother and goes to the yellowed fridge. There’s a single half-drank water bottle inside that isn't his. He rolls his eyes and closes the door before turning back to his brother. His stomach gives a growl he doubts his brother doesn’t hear. 

Mycroft places the credit card on the brown counter with an audible click before reaching into his inner pocket again and producing a single white envelope. “I believe you’ll need his new address,” he says. He goes as if to offer the envelope, but, when Sherlock doesn’t uncross his arms, sighs instead and places the envelope on the counter beside the credit card. 

Mycroft walks to the door, planning to leave, but he pauses just in front of it. “What do you plan on doing when you get there?” he asks, turning to face Sherlock with an inquisitive eyebrow raised. 

When Sherlock doesn’t respond, Mycroft smiles and hums a laugh. “I thought so,” he says, sounding amused, before he slips out the door, leaving Sherlock standing alone in the little flat that is too far from where he wants to be. 

* * *

Sherlock wastes no time using the address to find his way to John. He charges a cab ride on the credit card from Mycroft and gets out on the pavement. He stands across from the building that bears the address matching that of the one on the folded paper tucked inside his pocket and considers what to do. 

He’s thought of this moment many times, the return to John, but never had he taken into account the possibility of John not still staying in 221B, though he really should have, considering it had been three whole years and John was bound to continue existing while Sherlock was away, as much as Sherlock wished he hadn't. 

He stands there on the pavement across the street until one of John’s neighbors, an older man brandishing his house phone, threatens to call the police if he doesn't leave. Sherlock takes one step out onto the street, then another and another, until suddenly he is across the street and standing on John’s doorstep. John and Mary’s doorstep, Sherlock corrects himself. 

Sherlock finally raises his hand to knock when he hears footsteps approach behind him. He turns around, recognizing them as footsteps that aren’t John’s, and is met by a newly familiar face. 

Mary’s mouth falls open and her eyebrows push together in a conflicted expression between confusion, anger and then, eventually, understanding. “John is at work, but he should be home soon.” She passes by Sherlock on her way to the door, then turns back to him. “Fancy a cuppa?” 

* * *

John and Mary’s flat is a lot like its owners. It’s clean, compact, and there are little pops of color throughout. Mary leads Sherlock to the kitchen and he takes a seat at the table while she puts the kettle on. She’s chattering on about how she and John met as she does, something about a stubbed toe that swelled up the size of a sausage. 

Sherlock can’t help but notice that she’s perfect for John. She’s sweet, goofy, and sarcastic, with hints of seriousness and intelligence, and Sherlock finds himself absurdly jealous of this woman wearing a bright red skirt and a black t-shirt with a single-button sunny yellow cardigan over it. 

She smiles at Sherlock as she sets his tea down on the table and takes the seat across from him. She takes a sip of the hot liquid and her face takes on a more serious expression as she cups the mug in her hands, barely touching the porcelain. “He’s been missing you a lot lately,” she says. “The closer we get to the wedding, the more I think he wishes you were here.” 

Mary gets up from the table and heads into the kitchen where she reaches up on top of the fridge. When she comes back, she’s carrying a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She offers Sherlock a fag and he reluctantly declines. “I’ve mostly quit,” she admits as she lights one for herself and tucks it into her painted red lips. She takes a deep drag, then holds the cigarette in her fingers as she rests her arm on the table and blows out the smoke, facing away from Sherlock. 

Mary sighs and puffs on her cigarette a little while more before she taps the ash into an empty cup. Sherlock sips on his tea, because he’s starving and he can feel his stomach threatening to rumble again. 

“I don’t know if it’s because he wants you to be his best man,” Mary says eventually, “or if it’s because he would rather be with you.” 

The sound of the front door unlocking catches both of their attention and Mary quickly picks up her ashes cup and her mug of tea and disappears from the room, leaving Sherlock sitting there alone in the kitchen staring after her with something like hope thudding in his chest. 

“Mary, are you home?” John calls from the front room. Sherlock closes his eyes and hears the familiar sound of John hanging up his jacket, the sound of keys being deposited in a glass bowl, and then John’s footsteps as he heads toward the kitchen. “Have you been smoking?” he asks as he steps into the kitchen. Sherlock opens his eyes and sees John for the first time in years. His nose is scrunched up in distaste as he peers in through the doorway. 

John’s eyes fall on Sherlock as he rises on shaky legs from the table. His lips part in stunned disbelief and John has to catch himself against the wall as his legs begin to give out from underneath him. “Jesus Christ,” John slurs as he slides down the wall to sit on the shiny hardwood floor. "Jesus."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairly short chapter, but I think it's a good one. Enjoy!

**After the Fall. ******

********

Sherlock can’t sleep. The motel mattress is hard and the vile sheets are scratchy, and he can’t get the image of John falling apart out of his head. Every time he closes his eyelids, John’s face falls to pieces and he slumps to the side, unable to hold himself up anymore. The shock and horror in his eyes haunts Sherlock. Up until that moment, Sherlock had never truly known heartbreak. 

The motel room is too quiet without the sounds of John’s soft snores drifting down the stairs to him, or the creak of the mattress as John shifts in his sleep. Always because he’s rolled onto his bad shoulder and the discomfort forces him to move away. Sherlock didn’t realize just how much noise there was in 221B until this moment as the silence of the room buzzes in his ears. There is the far off sound of cars driving by and nothing more. 

The itchy sheets bother his sensitive skin and Sherlock kicks the top sheet and blanket down to his feet, then lays motionless in the middle of the mattress, staring at the shadow-dark ceiling. John should be up there, just a floor’s distance away, and not the miles and miles that he is. John should be here with him, his unassuming presence and movements at the forefront of Sherlock’s mind as they disturb the world around him. Sherlock can’t seem to forget about the fact that he isn’t here doing just that. Can’t delete it, doesn’t want to; he’s not sure which, but it’s likely both. 

He lays there for what could have been seconds or even minutes, but probably not hours, as the room doesn’t get any lighter, then he can’t resist getting up any longer. He touches his feet down on the rough brown carpet and searches for the silhouette of his backpack in the darkness. Once he finds it, he can’t stop himself and is across the room in seconds. 

He crouches down, not wanting to touch the floor more than he has to, and unzips the backpack. Sherlock had packed as minimally as possible, only bringing with him one item that he couldn’t buy along the way. The backpack, too, was new, as well as the pack of cigarettes tucked into the front pocket and the gun Mycroft had given him. The clothes he’d received were as civilian as possible and fit him as well as a potato sack might. They certainly felt like one on his skin. 

Sherlock searches the contents by touch alone and he digs deep, bypassing all the foreign new fabrics until he feels the right texture. Just the feeling of the cloth in his hand is enough to slow his racing thoughts to a lull and the meaning of that confuses him, because he doesn’t understand how such a thing is possible. Drugs had been his only solution when in need of just the same momentum for his thoughts, and somehow he was experiencing it now like he’d just taken a hit. He has to remind himself that it’s just a shirt and nothing more. 

That thought, too, throws Sherlock for a loop, because he realizes it’s not true. The shirt isn’t just a shirt. It’s his tether to home, his connection to John. The only piece of home he has left. Sherlock had come to that conclusion fairly recently, as well, the fact that John was home. On the plane ride to where he is now, actually. He felt as if the world was falling away behind him, crumbling to ash at his back. _I will burn the heart out of you._ Sherlock had known then that Moriarty had succeeded, because John was home and Sherlock’s wasn’t. 

Sherlock extracts the t-shirt from the backpack and he rises on suddenly shaky legs to carry it back to the bed with him, clutching it in his hands like the lifeline it is. He climbs on top of the rough sheets that are nothing like his at home and draws the blankets up over himself. He burrows underneath them until he’s completely enveloped in its somewhat drafty warmth. There, hidden away from a world that isn’t his, Sherlock raises the age-worn shirt to his nose and breathes in the scent of John. 

He finds that with it he can almost convince himself that he’s home. From then on, Sherlock can only ever fall asleep when he has the shirt with him. Whether it’s balled in his hands or under his head when he’s forced to bed-down somewhere unconventional, or, on rare-occasions, when he allows himself to wear it -- with his eyes closed, it’s almost like John’s right there with him. 

By the end, Sherlock isn’t even sure if it still smells of John. He doesn’t think it’s possible, is almost certain that it isn’t, but he convinces himself that it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that it still brings him home each time he goes to sleep, brings John to him and puts him in the bed beside Sherlock, curled up warm at his side with his arm draped over Sherlock’s waist like it’s never been before in sleep. At night, Sherlock is able to have John sleeping soundly, breathing warm and safe into his neck like Sherlock is the air he needs to breathe, like John is for him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Now.**

John is quiet for a long time. So long that Sherlock’s heels begin to feel tender. He’s tempted to sit down in the chair he vacated. The chairs around the table are rich mahogany armchairs with yellow leather, likely from a charity shop; there is so much color in Mary’s flat. John’s flat. Sherlock is afraid that if he does sit down, it will remind John of his presence, and he doesn’t want to upset John anymore than he already has, so he remains standing, studying the clenched-jawed profile of his friend until, finally, he speaks. 

“All this time,” John says. “Three years." His voice wavers. There are tears in John’s eyes, silver on his lashes, but he won’t let them fall. “I waited. I was so sure, _so sure_ that you would come back, that it couldn’t have possibly happened, because a man like you doesn’t die first. They don’t, Sher..." John's voice breaks and he shakes his head. "I waited to hear you come up those stairs, open the door, hang that coat and scarf on that bloody hook like always.” A tear escapes down John’s cheek and he goes silent, clenching and unclenching his jaw as he stares at the shiny black tiles of the kitchen floor. 

Sherlock waits for John to speak again, but he doesn’t. He isn’t sure of what to say to John. He’d had three years and one month to think of all the things he would say to John when the time came, and now all of them feel like a weight holding down his tongue. “John,” he manages to say, before John turns fiercely slit eyes on him. 

“Don’t you dare,” John bites out. And Sherlock doesn’t speak. It’s not because he can’t anymore, because now the words are filling up his mouth, but because this is a look Sherlock recognizes. Not from John, never, but from many others, and now it’s writ in every crease of John’s face. Anger, disappointment, sorrow, he’s seen many times on his friends face. Never before has he seen such hatred. 

“John, please, let me explain,” Sherlock says, and, stupidly, he takes a step forward. 

John springs up off the floor, his knees popping with the action, and despite his height, John towers over Sherlock. “I’m not an idiot! If you’re alive, you must’ve had a bloody reason to do what you did, but I don’t want to hear any of it. You got that? None! I mourned you, and it’s done. You and me,” John says, his bottom lip defiantly quivering. He clenches his teeth, sealing his lips together in a tight press to regain his composure. “We are through,” he breathes. 

* * *

“What did you expect would happen?” Mycroft says from the same spot by the door as the previous day. Sherlock goes into the tiny room and slams the bedroom door. He doesn’t leave until the next morning. By then, there’s food in the fridge. He’s not hungry. 

* * *

Sherlock can’t stay away and Mary comes out to meet him outside the house. She meets his eyes with her’s like denim and cocks her head to down the street before she begins to walk in that direction. 

He follows beside her, walking just behind so as to keep her in view without her seeing him. She’s quiet as she pulls the pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She offers him one and he declines. She tucks it back away into her jacket pocket and holds one of the cigarettes between her fingers. Sherlock’s eyes catch on the simple diamond ring and he barely manages not to stumble as the air is knocked out of him. 

There’s a bus stop with a brightly coloured blue bench and Mary sits down. She crosses her ankles and rolls the cigarette between her fingers. Sherlock sits beside her. 

“John hasn’t been able to sleep,” she says, looking at the street until a car passes by, then following it with her eyes until it disappears. “He hasn’t eaten a thing.” 

Sherlock presses his lips together. For the second time in his life, he doesn’t know what to say. 

Mary places the cigarette between her lips, then she plucks it back out and rolls it between her palms; her red lipstick is stained on the filter. “John waited three years for you to come back, Two of which I’ve known him and one of which he held off proposing to me. Two months after that, he proposed. One month later, you’re back.” 

Sherlock can’t take his eyes off the cigarette in her hands, the lipstick. He imagines that colour pressed onto John’s lips and suddenly it’s hard to look at it. He watches a car drive by instead. 

“He loves you and you don’t fucking care,” Mary says. She tucks the cigarette between her pointer and middle finger and places her thumb on the filter. “I mean, you do care, but you’re an arsehole and won’t do anything about it, because he loves me, too, and he proposed to me, so you think that’s what he wants.” 

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock breathes, glancing over at her stubborn profile. 

Mary tucks the cigarette into her pocket, fists her hands so that her knuckles show through the forest green cloth. She’s wearing a black dress, black leggings, and dark red flats. She shrugs and looks at him. “Aren’t you supposed to know everything?” 

Sherlock huffs a laugh and Mary smiles because she’s managed to make him smile, no matter how small. “I’m a high-functioning sociopath.” 

Mary laughs openly and Sherlock sees what John must see in her. Warmth, comfort. “There’s no such thing,” she says. 

“I’m the only one in the world,” Sherlock smiles, the words bringing to mind that first night and it hurts. 

Mary turns back to him, her smile falling, slowly, as she studies his face. Her eyes are intense as they meet his. “You always feel like that, don’t you? Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective: only one in the world. High-functioning sociopath: only one in the world. And now you love someone that also loves someone else.” 

Sherlock bites down on the inside of his lip and nods, slowly, once. 

Mary smiles, sadly, watching as a rusty orange car drives by. “For the first time in your life, Sherlock, you’re not the only one in the world.” 

Sherlock watches Mary as she raises her left hand in front of her and studies the sparkling diamond on her finger. She looks sad, but she smiles and there’s light in her eyes as she touches her finger to the top of it. Sherlock looks at the chipped purple nail varnish on her fingers, because it hurts a little less to. 

Sherlock doesn’t know how long he sits there, watching as cars drive by, as rain begins to fall lightly from the sky, as his breath puffs out in front of him like a wispy ghost, but when he finally rises to leave, Mary’s no longer on the newly painted bench beside him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is a very short chapter!

**Before John.**

There was something about the way a needle felt as it slid into a vein that had Sherlock always coming back for more. It wasn’t the rush or calm brought on by the drugs that he looked forward to the most, but the moment just after he tied the tourniquet when the needle was poised just over the vein, the moment right before he pierced his skin. In those few seconds before he inserted the needle, Sherlock’s thoughts went completely still. Whether it be the cocaine for a hard case or the morphine to slow down his thoughts for just a little while, Sherlock would touch the needle to his skin and all his focus went to the point where he could feel the sharp needle prick. 

He’d been working for Lestrade for just over six months when he arrived at a crime scene high and Sally, whom he’d been working closely with since the start, had known right away; her own brother had died of a cocaine overdose. She went to Lestrade immediately and told him of her suspicions and Lestrade, with his hair a little less gray, had told him that having him work the cases was already a huge risk; having an addict working the cases was not something they could allow. 

“Sherlock, you’re a brilliant man and I don’t want to watch you go down that road. Please, just get some help,” Lestrade had said. 

At first, Sherlock had refused. When he was high, he could see every little fact like it was a spider’s web, every little string connecting to each other with shimmery thread. His mind palace was obsolete then, because instead of having to open every door in search of the room he was looking for, Sherlock was able to look at everything like a blueprint, laid out for him beautifully. 

It took Mycroft getting fed up with picking him up in random alleys one too many times, him telling Mummy and getting Sherlock’s funds cut off, to slow down his drug intake. He was still able to afford the drugs by accepting cases, but soon Mycroft blocked off even that source of income, paying off people or even taking the cases himself. 

When Sherlock was coming down in his childhood bedroom, Mycroft had sat by his side through the night (on the nights when Sherlock didn’t lash out). Sometimes, when the withdrawal was at its worst and Sherlock was shivering with sweats, Mycroft would brush Sherlock’s damp hair back from his forehead and dab at the chill sweat with a cool cloth until Sherlock eventually fell asleep. 

In that time, Sherlock became a heavy smoker. The cigarettes seemed to be the only thing that calmed the shaking and the smoke managed to cloud his thoughts for at least a little while. Mycroft allowed it, supplying Sherlock with the cigarettes himself, because at least that way he knew what his brother was doing, at least that way he could prevent his little brother from going out in search of a different high for just a little while longer. 

When Mycroft handed over Sherlock’s first case as a recovering addict, Sherlock had inhaled the details on the first puff of a cigarette and he’d blown out the conclusion on the last cloud of smoke. 

It was Mycroft who found him a flatmate, a boy in University who couldn’t afford the rent on his own. Even without Mycroft there, Sherlock knew he was watching somehow, and it didn’t take long for him to discover how: through the eyes of his flatmate. 

No matter how much time went by, how many flatmates Sherlock went through, Mycroft watched to make sure his brother was okay. He refused to let Sherlock destroy himself. 

The day Mycroft saw Mike Stamford, smiling as he filled the silence with rambling conversation, lead the man his computer told him was John Watson into St. Bart’s, something about the way the man clenched and unclenched his fist told him all he needed to know: here was a man that needed someone, just like his brother. He only hoped Sherlock would take his advice for once and not do his best to run the man away. Though, as Mycroft saw it, he doubted there was much a man like John Watson ran from.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tendency toward the worst writer's block. Unfortunately, the lengths of my chapters suffer because of it.

**Now.**

John is sitting outside Sherlock’s flat when he gets back near dusk. The drab blue sky has just started to darken, grey clouds like smoke rolling in to hide the sinking sun, and a chill has picked up in the air. John’s cheeks are tinted pink, but he doesn’t seem to notice the cold. He’s clenching his jaw, probably has been since he decided to come here, and his lips are set in a firm line. 

As Sherlock nears his front door, John holds his hand up with his palm facing skyward and his fingers rigidly straight. “I didn’t get to hide from them, so you don’t get to either,” he says. He’s trying to control his voice, make it sound flat and uninterested, but Sherlock can hear the anger in him trying to break free. 

Sherlock reaches into the pocket of his greatcoat and pulls out the black leather case tucked away inside and sets it down on John’s waiting palm. The ex-army doctor curls his fingers around the case and lifts up to slide the case into the pocket of his jeans. 

There is silence between them for some time, of which Sherlock spends studying John’s gaunt face. “Mary made you come,” Sherlock realizes. 

“She wants us to talk,” John tells him. 

“Would you like to come in?” Sherlock asks. 

_No,_ Sherlock expects John to say, but he stands instead of answering. Sherlock notices a tightness at the corners of John’s eyes and a tick in his jaw. His leg is bothering him again. John does a great job of hiding it as Sherlock lets them in and John follows after, his fists balled tightly at his sides. 

“Are you hungry? Thirsty? There’s beer in the fridge,” Sherlock offers. He should have known Mycroft had planned this when he’d noticed the bottles inside; Mycroft knew Sherlock didn’t drink beer, and certainly not alone. 

“No." 

Sherlock can tell that John has already had a few drinks; to calm his nerves or to dampen down his anger, he’s not sure. He closes his eyes and breathes in. “I owe you many apologies, John, but it was all important that it should be thought I was dead.” 

He sees John’s jaw tense, but he continues, because he needs John to forgive him. 

He isn’t surprised that, when he finishes, John makes him bleed. What he is surprised by, however, is that John then sits him down on the toilet lid and cares for the wound. He’s quiet and his face is expressionless as he wrings out a cloth and cleans up the blood, then covers the cut with a plaster. 

It’s when John goes to wash his hands in the sink that Sherlock finally sees John’s calm demeanor begin to truly crack. John’s chin trembles and he braces himself against the sink. He drops his head and takes a deep breath. 

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” John tells him, his voice soft. He stays there, leaning over the sink for a moment longer before he leaves, water dripping from his fingertips as he disappears through the doorway. 

* * *

Sherlock receives a text at 7 the next morning from an unknown caller who he knows is Mary, because he’s memorized her number, as well as John’s new one, and it says so at the bottom. _John told me you don’t answer phone calls, so I’m asking you to dinner with a text. 8 p.m. tonight, our house? - Mary_

"Our house", the text says. Our house, as in her’s and John’s. Her-and-John’s house. John used to say ‘our place’, as in his-and-Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock can’t bring himself to reply, but when the time comes, he knocks on Mary-and-John’s door and waits for someone to answer. 

John is the one to open it. He is dressed in blue jeans and a white plaid shirt with maroon lines buttoned to his neck; his work clothes. When Mary comes out of the kitchen, taking off a black apron with red, yellow, and purple striped ruffles around the edges, Sherlock sees that she’s wearing a black dress that stops just below her knees and has on a pair of velvet maroon heels that match her to John. They are Mary-and-John. 

He wonders if Mary has done this on purpose, if John has noticed, and if John cares if he has. 

John’s eyes trail over Mary and he tugs at his collar and unbuttons one button. He’s uncomfortable; because he noticed or because Sherlock is here? Both? 

Sherlock chastises himself for thinking such idiotic things. John loves Mary, that much is obvious. Sherlock is angry at himself for coming. He should leave. 

“I brought wine,” Sherlock says, handing Mary the bottle he’s been wringing around the neck and staying where he is. 

Her mouth falls open when she reads the label. “We can’t take this.” 

“I insist.” 

“I’ll pour,” John offers. He takes the bottle from Mary’s hands before she can decline again and takes it to the kitchen. 

“Here, let me take your coat,” Mary says. 

Sherlock slips off his Belstaff and hands it to Mary, who hangs it on a mahogany tree rack by the door. “Thank you.” 

“I’m sorry about John.” 

“Why am I here?” Sherlock asks her, looking down at Mary. She’s almost an inch shorter than John without the heels. 

“It doesn’t seem like it now, but he does want you here. He’s missed you, Sherlock. He doesn’t talk about you very much, but I see it. Sometimes I know that he’s remembering you. He only ever looks like that when he thinks of you,” she says, sadness thick in her voice. 

“Like what?” Sherlock asks. 

“Like he’s somewhere else, somewhere he’d rather be.” 

“He loves you,” Sherlock tells her. 

“He loves you, too,” Mary says. She sighs and smooths a hand down her dress, the shakiness in her hand giving away her need for a cigarette. They both look at her engagement ring. Mary swallows and looks up at Sherlock, meeting his eyes with her light blue ones. “I want him to realize that.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth, stunned at what he’s hearing. “Mary...” he says, the disbelief evident in his voice. 

She smiles at Sherlock. “May the best of us win,” she says, before turning and walking into the kitchen. 

Sherlock is frozen in place. He stares at the doorway that she just passed through. _He loves you, too,_ Mary's voice echoes in his head. He struggles to breathe as her words repeat themselves over and over in his head. He turns to his coat and plucks it off the rack, telling himself that he can’t do this, that he doesn’t want to know which one of them John would choose, but it’s a lie. He looks at the door, then the coat in his hands, before he hangs it back up on the rack and turns toward the kitchen door. 

_May the best of them win_ , he thinks to himself. Sherlock goes to the kitchen door and lays his hand on the painted white wood. He knows it's an unfair game, but he pushes the door open anyway. If he's going to lose, he'll at least go down with a fight.


	8. Chapter 8

**After Baskerville.**

The sound of the stairs creaking under John’s weight catches Sherlock’s attention and he turns away from his book. He’s been reading about the hive mind of bees since... he glances at John as he comes into view and sees the amused-yet-concerned look on his face then looks at his watch to see it’s three a.m. Since yesterday morning. He’d started reading to try to get his mind off of John’s loud thoughts and his pacing feet.

John’s expression changes, as it has a tendency to do, to that of something more somber and he goes over to his armchair and sinks into the charity shop chair that has come to fit him perfectly. His eyes are tired - he hasn’t been sleeping much of late - and Sherlock once again tries to figure out why. 

Sherlock goes back to his book and looks at the words, but they jumble together and make no sense to him. He sits there, with his feet tucked under the middle cushion of the sofa and his book resting just below his knees, until he hears John shift in his seat and clear his throat. 

“Sherlock,” John says, the name sounding hesitant as it leaves John’s mouth. Sherlock hears the sound of John scratching - the side of his nose, Sherlock deduces, because John often does so when he’s nervous, as Sherlock knows he is now. He is not sure why, however, and listens attentively to John as he continues. “I think you should know that she was right.” 

She. The Woman. Sherlock knows who John’s talking about without needing him to specify, but he asks anyway. “Who?” 

“Sherlock…” John sighs and leans forward in his seat, clasping his hands together in his lap. “Don’t be an idiot.” 

A smile takes over Sherlock’s mouth before he has the time to stop it and he looks over at John. “She was right about many things,” he says. “Of which are you referring to?” he asks, smirking. 

John shakes his head, a smile on his lips. “I knew it was a bad idea to introduce you to Star Trek,” he says. 

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, John,” Sherlock says soberly, because John doesn't believe him. He meets John’s eyes, feeling vulnerable for the second time in a week. 

John smiles reassuringly. “I do love you, you git,” John tells him. “I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t.” 

“You…” Sherlock starts to say something, but he really doesn’t even know what, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because his throat has begun to constrict and he can’t seem to focus on speech when his heart is beating as fast as it is. "You love me?" 

“I know I get angry and I storm out and may not come back for days, but I want you to know that I will always come back, because I am your friend and you are mine.” 

Sherlock looks at John and sees that there are more unspoken words in John's eyes, but John just nods at him and runs his tongue over his bottom lip. “Alright?” 

Sherlock nods. “As long as you’ll have me, I’ll come back, as well.” 

John laughs and stands up. “Get some sleep, Sherlock,” he says as he makes his way to the stairs. Sherlock listens as he ascends them to his bedroom door and notes that each step sounds distinctly lighter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait for an update!

**Now.**

There’s a very distinct tension in the room as Sherlock takes a seat at the table, like he’s just walked in on people talking about him. He’s very familiar with the feeling and he pretends like he doesn’t notice as he unfolds a napkin over his lap. 

John is sitting to his left and Mary is seated to his right. John’s glass of wine is untouched, but her's has been marked by the pink stain of her lipstick. Halfway gone if she had the same amount as John. The bottle is beside her; second refill? 

They dish out their servings and Mary eyes his empty plate with concern. “Are you not hungry?” she asks. 

Sherlock can see John roll his eyes in his peripherals and he reaches forward to scoop a piece of homemade lasagna onto his plate. John’s been enjoying home cooked food that he didn’t have to make himself. 

Strike one against him. 

Sherlock cuts into his food and takes a bite. He can feel both John and Mary’s eyes on him and he can tell by the masked concern in John’s eyes that he’s relieved Sherlock is eating. 

“This is delicious, Mary, thank you,” Sherlock tells her. “It has been a long time since someone’s made me food.” 

John huffs a humourless laugh and Mary frowns. “Would you like some wine?” she asks. “Seems only fair that you have some, considering you brought it.” 

“I would,” he says. He watches as Mary shakily pours him a glass and reaches out to steady the bottle before she can splash it on the tablecloth. She smiles, embarrassment tinting her cheeks, and sets the bottle down. 

“I guess I’ve had a little too much,” she says. 

Sherlock can tell something is wrong here and the look on John’s face confirms it. His heart does something strange in his chest, thumping far too loudly to be normal when he sees the frown John is trying to force into a flat line. He looks back at Mary, at her hand. Not the the trembling right one, but the left where her ring sparkles under the overhead lights. 

There’s something trying to claw its way out of Sherlock’s throat, but he forces it down with a swallow of wine. His eyes are stinging, but he hides that, too, casting his eyes down at the plate of lasagna that Mary made. 

He doesn’t understand. He wants to tell her that he doesn’t understand why she’s doing this. Why she told him that John loved him and wants to make John realize it when it’s already too late. He wants to ask her why she’s challenged him to a game when it’s already been won. He’s already lost. 

Sherlock misses Mary’s words as she begins to speak. He has to breath in deeply before he can look up at her and focus on what she’s saying. There’s a sadness in her eyes that makes Sherlock believe that maybe she knows he knows, but her next words prove that she doesn’t. 

“Tell him what you wanted to tell him,” Mary says to John. 

Sherlock glances over to John, trying to keep control of himself, but their eyes lock together and Sherlock loses what little control he has when John licks his lips, preparing to speak. 

“There’s no need to,” Sherlock breathes, feeling his throat constricting. He leans back in his seat and looks over at Mary. “I already know,” he tells her. His eyes dart down to her ring finger and Mary covers her hand quickly, her eyes flying wide. 

She looks over at John and Sherlock’s suspicions are confirmed. 

“Thank you for dinner,” Sherlock says, standing up quickly. He pushes in his chair. “It truly was delightful.” 

His legs carry him out of the room and he grabs his coat off the rack. He’s out the door before he’s even pulled it on and he almost stumbles down the three steps as he tries to get away. A frightening sound escapes him and he grits his teeth, angry at himself for caring at all. 

He’s out on the street by the time he hears the footsteps behind him. He comes to a stop at the end of the block and he stands there, waiting for Mary to catch up, but it’s not her that grabs him by the sleeve and spins him around. “Don’t you dare leave me again,” John growls. 

Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of John glaring up at him with a fierceness in his blue eyes Sherlock’s never seen before. 

“I have to,” Sherlock says, his voice low to control the shakiness. To keep in the mourning beast in his chest. 

“Have to? Like you had to jump off the rooftop and make me watch have to?” 

“John-” 

“You can’t do this,” John tells him. “You can’t leave for three years and come back expecting things to be the same, expecting me to still be waiting for you like a dog who’s lost its owner.” 

The words almost make Sherlock flinch, remembering how Moriarty had spoken of John in the same way. 

“Let me go, John,” Sherlock says, tugging the arm still caught in John’s grasp. 

John shakes his head. “You’re my…” he swallows. “You’re my best friend, Sherlock, and I want you in my life.” 

Sherlock stares back at him and that night all those years ago, when John told him he loved him, fills his thoughts. The look in John’s eyes, the one Sherlock could never read, was exactly the same now as it was that night. He knew then that John meant he loved him in the way friends love each other, but the love Mary was talking about was something very much the same and very different. Sherlock knew now the distinction. He felt it with every breath of air he forced into his lungs. 

John shakes his arm and Sherlock comes back to himself to find John smiling up at him. “We may be married already, but we’re still going to have a wedding,” John says. “I want you to be my best man.” 

Sherlock blinks down at him and John releases his arm to step back, still smiling. Sherlock doesn’t realize until then how long they’ve been standing so close until John’s warmth is taken from him. 

“How about it, Sherlock? Will you do that for me?” John asks, looking falsely happy with damp eyes as he holds back the quiver evident at the corner of his thin lips. 

Sherlock nods automatically. “Yes,” he answers. “Of course, John.”


	10. Chapter 10

**After Irene.**

When John comes home, he’s clearly frustrated. His footsteps are heavy as he comes up the stairs to their flat and he breathes a long sigh as he removes his coat and hangs it on the hook by the door. His shoulders aren’t tense like they usually are when he comes back from a date that didn’t go the way he wanted; they’re loose - defeated. 

For once, he’s not back early because Sherlock called him back. Sherlock didn’t see the point; he knew it wasn’t even worth the effort. The woman, of whose name Sherlock doesn’t even remember, was unbelievable dull. Each new woman seemed worse than the last. 

“How was your date?” Sherlock asks, training his eyes back on the computer screen. John is frustrated, so it’s likely he’ll point out that it’s his and possibly take it away. 

John looks over at him, his lip curled as he prepares a retort, but he bites his tongue instead and rolls his eyes on his way to the kitchen. He goes right for the fridge and Sherlock smiles. Hadn’t even finished his meal, then. 

A few minutes later, John comes back into the sitting room with a sandwich. He puts it down on the side table next to his chair before turning to Sherlock and snagging the laptop from his hands. “Thanks for keeping it warm for me,” he grumbles before sinking into his chair. 

Sherlock sighs and turns over onto his side to watch as John eats with one hand and types with the other, getting crumbs all over the laptop. It’s no wonder the ‘z’ button sticks. “Why do you even bother?” Sherlock asks, settling his head in the cradle of one arm and resting his other hand on his thigh. 

John glances up at him, his blue eyes looking like night matching his shirt. “What? Eating? Some of us actually care about our health.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Dating, John,” he gesticulates, flailing a frustrated hand in the air. “Why do you even bother dating these women?” 

His flatmate frowns at the computer screen a moment before he shrugs and shoves the remaining bite of food into his mouth. “Can’t you tell?” he says, his words muffled by the bread. He chews a bit, then swallows. “I would have thought it would be really quite obvious to you.” 

Sherlock curls his arm back over his head, his fingers dangling behind his ear just tickling his hair. Of course he knew. “You’re afraid to die alone,” Sherlock tells him. “It’s why you hang out with your rugby mates, even though you only really like one or two of them. Why you visit your sister, even though you can’t stand her most of the time. And it’s why you go on dates with women that aren’t even worth a second of your time.” His throat tightens, but he swallows and forges on despite it. “It’s why you stay here while you look for somewhere else to go. I’m your fall back plan.” 

When he’s finished, he forces a swallow again and tries to steady his breathing. He’s thankful John’s eyes are trained on the computer screen, because his skin is suddenly really heated and he feels like, if John were looking, he just might cry for the first time since he was a child. The thought is embarrassing and Sherlock grits his teeth in annoyance at himself. 

There is a long moment of silence that seems to last for ages, then John closes the laptop with a click and stands up. He looks over at Sherlock and, finding Sherlock’s eyes unwilling to meet his, shakes his head before he makes his retreat to the stairs. “You’re wrong,” he says, pausing at the bottom of the staircase, shoulders sunken. “You’re not my fall back plan, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock listens to the soft thump of John’s feet up the stairs, then buries his face in his elbow. He doesn’t know if he cries or not, because the next thing he remembers, he’s waking up to the sound of a door banging closed. For a heart-stopping moment, he thinks it’s John leaving him at last, but then he hears the tell-tale sound of Mrs. Hudson’s heels clicking on the pavement outside. He exhales, then lets himself breathe again and he hates that the tightness in his chest doesn't go away, no matter how many times he does.


	11. Chapter 11

Now.

Sherlock taps on the door to the dressing room and hears a call for him to come in. His heart is thudding oddly in his chest when he pushes the door gently open. His eyes flit around the white room decorated with white vases of tall, butter-yellow flowers until they settle on Mary where she stands in front of a mirror. 

Their eyes catch in the reflection and Sherlock steps into the room until he’s standing just a few feet behind her. 

“You look beautiful,” he says over her shoulder to her image in the glass. 

Mary smiles sweetly and turns to look up at him. “And you look quite dashing, as well,” she says. She reaches up and tugs on his purple bow tie as if it needed fixing. "Not nearly as good as me, though," she tells him, laughter in her eyes. Sherlock smiles down at her and sees that her eyes also look like the shivering watery surface of a lake, or a dam about to break. 

They really haven’t talked much, he and Mary. Well, they have, but not about that night at dinner. They’ve talked about everything but the game and how he’d lost. He sees it on her lips now, though, in the way she turns back to the mirror and plucks an earring up off of a small side table. She catches and holds his reflection’s gaze as she tries to fit the earring into her ear. 

“Don’t think I don’t know you know,” Mary says. Her hands are shaking noticeably and the earring won’t go in right.. 

Sherlock moves to help her, taking the jewelry from her and reaching up to poke it in. “I don’t,” he tells her, giving a small smile when she huffs a laugh. 

“He needs to know that I...” she starts to say, but her voice breaks and a tear cascades down her cheek. She clears her throat and brushes it quickly away, meeting his eyes in determination. “I know he loved you first and it’s okay for him to be happy with you when I’m gone.” 

Her words make his eyes sting. He nods and looks away, hiding the fact from her. “Then it is okay for him to be happy with you while you’re here.” 

Mary’s eyes flick to him and a smile spreads across her lips. “Really?” she laughs and more tears roll down her cheeks, unstoppable. She looks better now, somewhere close to content. 

He tilts his head. “Well…” 

Mary bats his shoulder and Sherlock smiles. 

“I am happy to have lost to you, Mary,” he admits, meeting Mary’s still smiling eyes. 

Mary’s light brows furrow together and she shakes her head, somehow managing to look both disappointed in him and happy. “You didn’t lose, love," she say. "We both won.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will be coming to a close soon. Just two chapters to go.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much just porn. Enjoy!

**Eight Months after Mary.**

When Sherlock wakes up, he can’t fall back asleep. The bedroom is dark except for the little light that can be seen through the curtain and the red numbers glowing on the alarm clock. Annoyed at be awake, Sherlock blinks in the darkness, wondering what it was that woke him. 

“Sherlock?” 

The door creaks and Sherlock turns to see John’s silhouette in the doorway. 

“John?” Sherlock replies, sitting up, quickly becoming alert. 

“No, nothing’s wrong,” John says quickly. “I was just wondering if I can sleep in here tonight.” 

The questions surprised Sherlock and he frowns. “Of course,” he answers, trying to make out John’s features in the dark. He’d thought he’d made it clear already that it was okay. Sherlock shifts so that there’s enough room for John and he feels the blanket pull aside so that John can crawl underneath the comforter. When John’s settled in, Sherlock can see his face a little better by the moonlight. He’d wondered if perhaps John had been having a bad dream, but there’s nothing on John’s face that suggests he’s upset about something. 

They’ve been together for about two months now, but as ready as Sherlock is to share his bed with John, his bedroom, his body, John isn’t ready to do the same, and Sherlock is okay with that. He’s been waiting a long time and he’s ready to wait as long as it takes. He’s waited his whole life for John; he’s used to it by now. 

“Sorry if I woke you,” John says in the quiet. 

“No, it’s alright. It’s just sleep,” Sherlock smiles. 

A returning smile spreads across John’s face. “I’ve been thinking…” 

“Oh god, not again,” Sherlock groans. 

John hits him in the shoulder and Sherlock chuckles. 

“What about?” 

“You,” John says. 

“And?” 

“Me. Us.” 

“Okay…” 

“And you’re right. I should probably stop thinking,” John tells him. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow together. “What?” 

“You should make me stop thinking.” 

Sherlock blinks, looking down at John’s face in confusion. 

John’s hand curls around Sherlock’s and he guides it up to his mouth where he kisses Sherlock’s fingers. “I’m ready.” 

“For?” 

“Everything.” 

“Everything?” 

John laughs. “Yes. God, Sherlock, yes. Everything.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“You’re supposed to make me stop thinking, not give me more things to think about. I’m sure,” John insists. 

Sherlock reaches out to cup John’s face and leans down to kiss his brow. “Okay.” 

John grins and tilts his head until their lips touch. He presses into Sherlock, his tongue sliding in alongside Sherlock’s as he maneuvers Sherlock’s weight on top of him. 

“Get the light,” John says, sliding his hands up Sherlock’s flat stomach to brush his thumbs across the peaks of his nipples, making Sherlock gasp. “I want to see you.” 

Sherlock reluctantly pulls himself away long enough to switch on the light. He groans when he’s suddenly blinded and John tugs him back down to capture his mouth again, laughing. 

“You’re so different when you’re tired,” John murmurs. 

“I know. It’s terrible.” 

John laughs and nudges Sherlock’s mouth open to kiss him deeply, tasting the mint from his toothpaste on his tongue. “I like you this way,” John says when they break away. “You’re… I don’t know. Softer? Less guarded.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Just a moment ago you were trying to get into my pants.” 

John’s hands slid down to Sherlock’s arse. “You’re not even wearing any pants.” 

“And yet you’re still talking.” 

John nips Sherlock’s lip, making Sherlock startle. His face scrunches up, only helping to make John laugh even more. He kisses the wounded lip and grabs the back of Sherlock’s shirt to pull it off over his head. He goes to toss it away when his eyes catch something on the front of it. “Hey, this is my shirt!” he says, holding it up so that Sherlock can see the RAMC logo on the left breast. 

John feels it as Sherlock freezes up on top of him and watches as Sherlock looks over at the shirt, trying to conceal the guilt on his features. “Yes, it would appear it is.” 

“Where did you get this? It’s been missing for…” John looks up at Sherlock when he puts it together and Sherlock glances away. “Since you jumped off of Bart’s.” 

“Mm.” 

“Why?” John asks, dropping the shirt onto the floor. He reaches up and runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Why did you take it?” 

“So I could bring you with me,” Sherlock says, before looking away, embarrassed by his weakness. He can feel John’s eyes on him, but it takes John’s hand guiding Sherlock’s eyes back to his with a hand on his cheek for Sherlock to finally look back. 

“I’d like to see it on you more,” John says, then he leans up and kisses Sherlock softly. “Though you look just as good out of it,” he says, trailing his eyes down Sherlock’s lean body to his firm cock. Heat warms Sherlock’s cheeks and it only gets hotter when John leans in to capture Sherlock’s lips while his hand strays down to take ahold of Sherlock’s cock. 

Sherlock makes a needy sound into John’s mouth and John smiles again him, pleased. He licks into Sherlock’s mouth and strokes his cock while also trying to remove his own pants. Sherlock gets frustrated by John’s wriggling and decides to have mercy on him and pull them off for him so John’s focus can be on making Sherlock’s toes curl. 

Once John’s bare, Sherlock settles on top of him and John releases his cock to reach around and graze his fingers over Sherlock’s hole, making Sherlock shudder. 

“Please tell me you have lube in here.” 

“Bedside drawer,” Sherlock says, his voice a little hoarse. “Glad it’s going to finally be put to use.” 

John spills the lube onto his fingers and reaches back around. “Me, too.” 

Sherlock is keening by the time John is up to three fingers, but he’s managed to keep himself surprisingly quiet otherwise. John knows Sherlock’s never really done this before, so he’s slow and gentle except that evil moment when he discovers just how vocal Sherlock becomes when his prostate is massaged and nearly drives him out of his mind. 

Unable to take it anymore, Sherlock bends down to kiss John hungrily before reaching down and replacing John’s fingers with his cock. John smoothes his hand down Sherlock’s back as he sinks down on John and then they wait while Sherlock breathes deeply, getting used to the feeling of John buried inside of him. 

John braces his hands on Sherlock’s hips when he begins to experimentally lift up and sink back down. It’s such a strange feeling that Sherlock doesn’t know if he likes it or not, so he keeps going, waiting for it to feel like it looked in the videos he’d watched for research. 

He gasps when John angles his hips just right and hits his prostate. He grips John’s shoulders and John pistons his hips to thrust into him, driving him closer and closer to orgasm. 

“John, I’m going to come. I’m going to come. I-” Sherlock cries out as his body is overwhelmed with pleasure and he comes in quick spurts that reach to John’s chest. He collapses forward onto John and John thrusts a few more times before freezing. Sherlock moans weakly as John comes deep inside of him, his body shuddering beneath Sherlock before it goes limp. 

Sherlock finds John’s lips and kisses him a few times before he gives up on holding his head up and rolls over to lay on his pillow. 

“We need to take a shower,” John says, clearly not pleased by that fact. 

Sherlock tries to bury his face in his pillow, but John shifts close to him and presses his lips to Sherlock’s before he can. 

“Up. I think I’ve got your come in my hair, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock tilts his head back and peers up at John’s hair. Sure enough, there is. Sherlock chuckles and John swats his arse before tugging Sherlock up out of the bed and carrying him to the shower over his shoulder, much to Sherlock’s shocked delight.


	13. Chapter 13

**Four months later.**

They visit her grave on the anniversary of her death carrying lilies. It’s a bright, beautiful day with not a cloud in the sky up above them. Somewhere in the trees there are birds chirping. It's such a warm day that Sherlock couldn't bear to keep his coat on and now has it folded over his arm. Beside him, John is wearing a brown and blue plaid button-up with brown trousers and he looks especially dashing with the sun revealing the gold that still remains in his hair.

Looking at John, Sherlock can imagine Mary standing there beside him with her blond hair shining nearly white in the sun and he smiles at the imagined image. Mary would have loved the weather today. 

John tugs up his trousers and sinks onto the grass to cross his legs. He lays the newly blooming flowers atop Mary's grave and holds onto one of the soft white petals, caressing it like he would Mary's skin. He stays there, closer to the grass than Sherlock, and closes his eyes. From above, Sherlock can see John’s reflection in the shine of the headstone and there's a faint smile on his face. In the shine on the marble it looks wavery. 

In the quiet he can hear a bird flapping its wings against tree leaves and the sobs of a woman somewhere far off. Sherlock turns away from John's reflection and he can just make her out collapsed to her knees with her face in her hands. Sherlock looks away quickly to allow her private mourning. 

Returning his gaze to Mary’s tombstone, Sherlock watches as John’s shoulders begin to shake. Startled, he looks down at the top of John’s wheat-coloured head and wonders if he should reach for him, to try and soothe John with his touch. When Mary passed away, John did most of his mourning away from Sherlock and his inexperience. As he watches John's shoulders tremble, unsure of himself, he's reminded once again of just how much they've both lost. Mary would know what to do here; she always knew what to do. She would probably join him on the ground or place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 

As Sherlock makes up his mind to place his hand on the top of John's warm hair, a soft sound escapes John and Sherlock’s racing mind stills at the strange noise. That was a laugh, he realizes with confusion. It’s such a shock that Sherlock begins to think he's missed something. 

"John?" he asks, looking down at the man who loves him, too. 

“She told me she’d come back and kill me if I cried at her grave,” John says with laughter in his voice. “Anywhere else and it was okay, but she didn’t want me to disturb her sleeping.” 

A smile grows on Sherlock’s face and he laughs softly. He hadn’t realized it, but tears had formed in his eyes and they slipped down his cheeks with a startling suddenness that made him freeze, which only gave him a reason to laugh even more. Soon his shoulders were shaking just like John’s and his hand slid surely around John's waist as he joined him on the grass. 

When they finally sober, John sniffs and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand before turning to Sherlock with a warm smile. “I love you,” he says suddenly, unhesitatingly. “Both of you. I love Mary, and I love you, Sherlock, and I will love you for the rest of my life, because you're under my skin now and I want you here with me always.” 

John's words take Sherlock by surprise and he stares back at John with tears still in his eyes from their laughter. Eventually his brain starts back up and he's able to go so far as to nod. "I will be," he promises with wide eyes. 

John grins back at him and puts his warm hand on Sherlock's thigh, gives it a squeeze. 

"Did I ever tell you about how I met Mary?" he asks. 

"She told me she stubbed her toe on something. A chair, I believe." 

John tosses his head back with a roaring laugh. "I'm not surprised she didn't tell you the whole truth; she probably thought you would have deduced it yourself, but Mary has the dancing skills of a flag in the wind. She stubbed it trying to learn how to strip tease." 

Sherlock chuckles and leans his head against John's neck to listen in comfort. He can feel the vibration of John's words against his ear as he talks and giggles and with each new story, Sherlock falls more in love with each of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story. I know I did! :)

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to hear what you think of this!
> 
> If you'd like, follow [me](http://whichwolfwins.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


End file.
